


Dance Me to the End of Love

by Cluegirl



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl





	1. Time always reveals The lonely light of morning The wound that would not heal

We all begin with good intent.

William has no trouble believing in Original Sin. It's reared its scaly head into his life more times than he can count, and it's fucked him every time. Every truly atrocious thing he's ever done, every escalation of the monster he learned to be, every degradation of the clinging rags of his soul have come at the coaxing of a pouting lip, a mocking eye, a beckoning breast.

The very worst of him has always risen to Eve's lure, even when the eyes were bright with terrified tears, and the lips stretched around a scream. The daughters of men -- perilous fair, every one. And with every sip, every garnet drop from their pomegranate hearts, he slipped farther and farther along Charon's path.

And now an angel's come down to him. And she slides along his skin like satin vestments, the damp of her core a fragrant sacrament, her gasp a benediction, her scream a hymn.

He knows she is leading him again.

And he knows he has no choice but to follow. Whether she leads him into the Sun's embrace, or into the final darkness, he knows he will follow her _anywhere_ for the promise of

One.

Last.

Bite.


	2. something involving maple syrup

"Far too sweet," he thinks with an inward smile as she brings the waffles to his bed, dripping with thick, translucent brown. But he knows she... well, not so much "cooked" them, as transferred them from freezer to toaster, pushed a button or two, and then buried them under oleo and syrup -- but the point is, she did it herself. For him.

He's never quite got used to the American fascination with maple syrup. But then there are many things about his young charge which he, over the years, has learned to accept with no more than a sigh and a shrug. Her slang, her clothing, her utter boredom with the concept of reading voluntarily, and of course, he thinks, watching the curve of her hip over her blue flannel bed-trousers (the ones with the fluffy sheep on, which say "I heart ewe") her taste for men from whom any sensible girl would surely flee. Vampires. Soldiers. Sorcerers old enough to shag her mum over the hood of a police cruiser.

"You eat up now," she says, perching close by his side, warm through the duvet, and golden in the morning light. She leans close to tuck a napkin over his arm sling, and he can smell the ghost of his cologne in the hollow of her shoulder. "You'll need your strength to get better, right?"

For want of anything sensible to say, and because he knows she's done all this to please him, though he hasn't a clue why, he lets her fill his mouth with sticky, greasy, starchy, too sweet life. And isn't really surprised to discover that the woody, golden taste rather reminds him of her.


End file.
